Ya habrán notado cómo el tiempo puede ser un carroñero, un Mayúsculo Bastardo, un verdadero Son of a Bitch. No se debe confundir tiempo con Tiempo. Eso sería como comparar Schubert con Richard Clayderman.
Por un lado, tenemos el Tiempo, que es algo que no existe, como todo el mundo sabe. Bueno, sí existe, pero apenas unos pocos afortunados lo han llegado a vislumbrar.
Después tenemos ese roñoso, que en adelante llamaré tiempo, así bien minusculeado. La distinción es clara. En nuestra vida, todos vivimos el tiempo, y pocos, muy pocos, llegamos a entrever la belleza en las comisuras del Tiempo.
El carroñero intentará comernos vivos, y lo conseguirá en muchos casos. A este bastardillo pertenecen la prisa, el stress, la sensación que a menudo tenemos de que alguien está viviendo nuestra vida, robándonos algo queeranuestro. El inglés llama al tiempo de espera meantime, o mean time (literalmente tiempo de en medio, pero también tiempo rácano, vil, roñoso). Nuestro enemigo es ese meantime, que nos miente bellacamente al hacernos creer que mañana será mejor. En verdad os digo que mañana (y pasado mañana, y al otro…) será mejor sólo si conseguimos extirparnos del devenir del tiempo y vivir en el Tiempo.
El Tiempo, en el caso de que caso lo encontréis, restaurará nuestra conexión íntima y vital con la existencia.
El caso es que para encontrar al Tiempo (y para vivir en Él), no hay otro camino sino matar al tiempo. No hay, simplemente, otra forma. Sólo después de haber asesinado a ese buitre de mierda, al canalla ladrón, entonces podrá reinar Tiempo en nuestras vidas.
Notaréis el cambio porque el Tiempo nos ofrece una visión de la eternidad. No la eternidad propiamente (que no existe), sino una experiencia de nuestra vida como una continuidad asombrosa, única, bellísima y creativa.
Una vez que vivimos en el Tiempo, inmediatamente reconoceréis que todo alrededor cambió, y os volveréis adeptos, tal vez incluso adictos, del Tiempo. En este último caso, no os debéis preocupar, porque el Tiempo es el mayor tesoro de este mundo y la adicción no tiene ningún efecto maléfico.
El Tiempo se distingue así de las muchas ofertas de carácter religioso que existen hoy en el mercado. El Tiempo nos brinda un Presente Continuo, tan Mayúsculo como el propio Tiempo. Un Presente en el que todo lo pasado y futuro se dan cita simultánea en un momento radiante al que llamaremos Vida.
La persona que encontró su Tiempo mira a la muerte sin miedo, y hasta esboza una sonrisa. La persona que vive en su Tiempo no entiende la expresión “perder el tiempo”, porque sabe que todo se sucede en una perfecta simultaneidad, que deja espacio para que todo sea contemplado y gozado.
Dos consejos, por último. Primero, una vez que hayáis decidido matar al bastardo, recordad que todo lo que necesitáis es un haz de rayos de luz u otra cosa de belleza similar.
Segundo, no os asustéis con la experiencia de lo simultáneo. Tantas coincidencias pueden haceros pensar en explicaciones místicas del tipo: “uhmm, esto no puede ser una coincidencia…veo aquí la mano de dios”. Nada sería más errado, en mi opinión. Aceptad, hasta comprender por vosotros mismos, que el Tiempo es el Espacio en el que habitan todos los eventos y fenómenos del mundo, y es, por tanto, proclive a la manifestación de coincidencias.
Es sólo más de lo mismo no hay razón para alarmismo: nada teman, rectos ciudadanos los que de verdad lo son Después de todo (y antes que nada) son sólo unas bandadas de vocablos, avistadas en anárquico vuelo, presumiblemente convocadas, como tantas otras veces, por el vil poeta, esa escoria agitadora indefecable e indefectiblemente presente en toda sociedad respetable Ustedes ni se preocupen, las autoridades velan para que ustedes puedan soñar con la felicidad a un ritmo cardíaco convencional (Sólo que hoy fue diferente): tocadas las palabras de un fulgor de verdad limpias, jabonosas, aladas, fragantes novias blancas, libres, incluso, y sólo por hoy, de la ineludible carcoma del uso de esa roñosa herrumbre de sarro y baba así, cual vírgenes sonrientes, propiciamente ofrecidas, hacia el poeta confluyen en espléndida estampida animadas por un céfiro amigo jubilosas, purificadas, por ensalmo renacidas en sentidos ya olvidados Nadie las llamó esta vez, y menos que nadie, el poeta, y sin embargo, con qué encomiable espíritu de misión, ellas a él se entregan, a él, que nada hace sino besarlas en la frente viéndolas tejer laboriosas, en sedicioso tumulto: acoyuntándose en lascivas posiciones, alumbrando sintagmas imposibles prorrumpiendo en desinencias ilícitas libertineando el orden de las cosas (¡proclamaron al mar verbo, y lo coronaron!) blasfemando en su camino hasta la hoja perversas jaculatorias vertiendo insolentes torrenciales eyaculaciones como carcajadas sobre toda aquella mugre que, hasta el día de hoy, y a falta de mejor expresión dimos en llamar sacrosanta o sagrada
“But how in the world have we grown so amazingly old?”
There is no hint of despair in this thought, just a quiet, even good-humored realization. Slowly, he looks to his left to that other man sitting in his park bench. Just halfway in his direction, barely enough to confirm that his friend is still there. He doesn’t remember having said that sentence aloud, yet he knows this man could have thought the very same thing at the very same time. So close they are. They don’t talk so much to each other these days. There is no need, either. Being there is enough.
Neither of them has a watch. They would not have a use for it. Time has no place here. Their spirits wander as wordless companions through the trees, paths and fountains, like two plastic bags driven by a friendly wind. They are learning what real freedom is about.
Inside the park, the man hardly hears any noise coming from the city. The afternoon sun warms his heart. To others passing by, he may look like an old man waiting for his death in some stage of vegetative somnolence. Yet, there is so much more going on within. He feels so much, nowadays. Sometimes, he realizes he feels better now than any time before in his life. Every little thing is now felt outside the realm of time.
Take this glorious sun, for instance. The warmth is now, “sonow”, he thinks, as his mind drifts away a bit. This drifting makes the now eternal, as if the warmth itself was not tied anymore to a definite source, or to a particular time. “If I could have known this before”, his mind says without regret, before switching again to that eternal feeling mode. Without time, there is no end to what one can sense. And death can feel as far in the distance as it ever was. You kill Time, and you enter the gates of the eternal. As simple as it sounds.
He thinks now in sudden flashes, he collects ideas like a shepherd collects little verses. His brain takes long rests, during which he feels things. Intensely. His feel is soulful, inner, very his own. And yet it has such luminescence, such revealing clarity, that it is perceived as a universal thing, like bread for plenty. Within himself, he would want to become an apostle, to preach this gospel of simplicity. “Such a perfect balance”, he thinks, feeling microscopic and grateful. But it would be taken as a madman, so he refrains his sharing impulse. He knows his friend is following a similar path, and he smiles the fondest smile to him. “More than enough”.
Then, without notice, something appears in his mind, as if planted on his brain by someone else. Often, these sudden pieces of thought lead him to a strange, detached feeling. “Am I myself? Going nuts, perhaps? Disintegrating? Why am I thinking thoughts that are so not mine?
That something muttered in his hear sounds like this: “My only belongings are the things I have lost”. He never thought anything remotely similar. But it rings so true.
Far from feeling anguished, he is serene while considering these ideas. He smiles at himself. He knows he is finally mastering the art of not taking himself too seriously. In his tired mind, this equals somehow to loving himself and loving everything. And he is right. Life is surely packed with dead ends, so why bother? Whatever might have been puzzling to him years ago, he regards now with an infinite, disarming understanding. Not that the pieces have fallen into a grid. If anything, it’s just the realization that the grid does not exist at all. Things just happen. He cherishes that little charming chaos.
Some years before, he had a memory. Now he has shifted. He owns recollections. The “past” has lost some of its meanings. Past is a moon-like landscape, a fragmentary universe. Instead feeling deprived of his story, he treasures his recollections while they last. If past is dissolving, at least present has grown like a wild flower. Present is a feeling, not so much a memory. He is happy he can feel so much at this unspeakable old age. These windows of present feel so good and free. Who could ask for anything more?
He glances over the changing features in front of him. The afternoon light reveals the spider web awaiting its prey in a nearby bush. In a flash, the man can feel the exquisite order of things, like the insignificant, universal drama of predator and prey under that serene light of the final winter. He can see, exposed under his glance, all that natural logic, the naked branches, the first pink buds heralding the new season. And all that is so much more than the mere observation of known and repeated facts. The man feels as a privileged listener of all that supernatural dialogue above him. Nature is not a description anymore, but pure emotion.
It is getting colder now. He feels renewed again; gratefulness reverberates through his glowing soul. Turning towards his companion, his hand reaches the other man’s face. His minute eyes look at the man with faint affection, but the hand performs what appears to be a thoughtful and loving caress. The fingers trace every wrinkle, like reading on their own the forgotten disasters carved on his friend’s face.
This marks the end of their day. They come back to Time, and in the next hours they will die a little more. Tomorrow, if weather allows, they will kill Time again, silently begging the Spring to arrive quickly, to allow them another chance to flourish.
A Warrior of Time on earth your sluggish steps an eternally enforced speed-limit a still liturgy of distance
(nature´s vengeance for your endless life)
An anguished dream made of blackened sand
a nightmare like a curse
returning every night to your chelonian brain: a close escape at dawn, a lucky break a leap of life into your motherly waters
(that seagull cursed you with a thousand harsh squawks just to avoid the shame of being "slower than a turtle")
Messenger of Osiris Stela in Yucatán When nothing is anymore
your empty shell will remind us of
The Mother of War
The Great Witness
The Explorer, The Dreamer, The Geographer
The One who saw it all
(hence your tired-looking eyes)
Now, on your final voyage caressed by warm currents your carapace returns to that beach where the most delicate hands will give it its final dignity
(Nailea cries as she recognizes her friend for she rightly believed in your timelessness... ...then, still in tears she works your hollow shield into the most exquisite comb so that you can for ever caress her honey hair)
So, human, what do you do when you want to watch dangerous predators without exposing yourself to risk? Easy. You get your noisy kids and drive to the Zoo. So easy. Tired of National Geographic? Want a bit of the real thing? "Darling, pack a picnic! This Sunday we go to the Zoo!!". Bastard.
You love us, don't you, animal lover? After all, you were animals yourselves, or so you believe. Since you have progressed your way up to the top of the evolutionary ladder, you feel rightly entitled to watch safely the circus from behind the fences. You believe you got that privilege from outsmarting everyone else. Moron. You're deadly wrong (Oops. I said it. It's a good thing you can't really hear anymore).
But let me tell you, human, how low a form of life you are. From our vantage point of being your enslaved entertainment, we observe you every day. We cross data, man. And very efficiently, at that. We realize how fragile you are. And HOW IDIOT, my god. I hope you are tasty at least.
At the entrance gates, you won't notice anything unusual. Pushed by your excited kids and by your own voyeur instincts, you don't even realize you have lost your finest senses, your instincts no longer talk to you. As the king of nature, awareness is something you don't need anymore, right? Think twice, imbecile. Today my plan is to celebrate victory with a different kind of meal. Yes Sir. Yummy Sir.
So your sense of smell doesn't tell you anything at the gates? You belong to that endless human stream with a stupid and excited smile printed on the face, shameful bunch of circus-goers. Get in the line, go buy your ticket, don't forget the extra one for the special exhibit on the House of Reptiles, with discount. Your kids will be sooo impressed they won't blink. Believe me. The flabby little bastards will love you for the ice cream you bought them. That's it, if they survive. What do you think? Will they outrun the crocodiles? That's a hard one. They are fast.
Your ears are not useful either, to make sense of what is going on along our cages. Does the screaming at the main ape cage sound unusual? Of course not. They are just cute monkeys aren't they? As a cultured man, maybe you will allow yourself a contemplative look to Tristan, the old and quiet gorilla, who will look reflectively at you. For a minute, you will consider how near both your species are after all ("It looked as if he were really thinking"), just to dismiss the idea one minute after. Oh man, I told you, Tristan IS REALLY thinking. How can YOU be such a pathetic asshole? It must take some effort on your part.
But in fact you could have saved your life and your kids' if you had payed a little attention. You see, this Sunday is a special one for us. Jeez, we have been preparing this FOR AGES. You are so right damn stupid I feel inclined to give you a chance. Who knows...with a bit of a head-start, the adrenaline might make your meat taste better.
No, I won't spoil what my sisters and brothers and myself have been cooking for such a long time. Hey, get a lesson from us. Here we live, spiders and elephants, chimps and birds, big felines and little rodents. We treat each other as equals, you see. It does not matter to us whether or not the hyena is color-blind or the orangutan can use a tool to open a nut.
Actually, when it comes to understand each other, we have grown more sophisticated than any of your kind can imagine. It started several years ago. Large apes and dolphins and whales and octopuses, they say they were the first. It does not matter anymore. Brain waves, man. BRAIN WAVES. They notice them, learnt to control them and use them. Then they taught the other brothers and sisters, one species at a time. We call that time The Awakening. At some level, any of us can speak to any other, no matter how distant our cages are. We have perfected telepathy before you humans could scratch the surface of its potentialities for yourselves. No words necessary. Just pure thought...Never mind, you could not understand anyway, you silly boy.
I'll give you an example, imagine this: Fred the Hippo realizes there is a small security breach on his fence. He CALLS me. Imagine Teddy the Bear notices that the keepers relax security on weekends, during feeding time. He does nothing, he just let me know. I have HUNDREDS of those occurrences on my brain. By the way...Talking about security breaches, don't miss the big party today, at The House of Reptiles. I guarantee it will be worth every penny!
And don't forget we are observing you. It's funny that you humans have become our own private circus. Your many failures as a species have accelerated the awakening. In fact you are the ones who would deserve to be here. We have been keeping a record of your behavior. Reading the panel with our feeding habits on the wild. Where to find us on the wild. Are we endangered? ASSHOLES, YOU are the endangered ones! You can't imagine what we can do NOW! Your kids want to feed us the poisonous crap they eat themselves. I'm sick of that cheap chip smell.
Also, it fascinates me how easily bored you get when I don't "do" anything to please YOU. You just go whenever the action is. Do you want me to roar, to act as a real lion? Wait a few hours and I'll do my number only for you, only this time it will be up close...maybe closer than you'd wish.
Unlike you, we have not forgotten the path for freedom. It was somehow imprinted on our cells. Today is THE DAY. We are tired of being looked at, tired of flashes and the hideous smell of ice cones. Personally, I'm tired of my ridiculous African-looking imprisonment. Forgive me if I have this resentful look in my eyes. I'm the slave enacting his revenge dream. Today. It will be a glorious and somewhat chaotic celebration. You cannot miss it. Right after your picnic, YOU become ours. WELCOME TO THE AWAKENING PARTY. TODAY, EXCEPTIONALLY, FEEDING THE ANIMALS IS ALLOWED.
